


Break or Seize Me

by dynamicsymmetry



Series: Pacify [4]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, F/M, Gags, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:17:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so Daryl thinks he can sort of manage what it seems like Beth wants without completely freaking out. He's dealing. He thinks he might even be able to deal with liking it, you know, a lot. </p><p>Time to take things up a notch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break or Seize Me

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, [you may blame FKA twigs for all of this.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FLb1T3JVOWs) I swear she is why I write it. 
> 
> I should note at this point that you don't _have to_ read the other fics in this series in order to get any one of them in isolation but for character and plot reasons I strongly recommend that you do so. It's porn, you probably don't need any arm-twisting to read porn.

So all right. She's strong enough for those other things, she's strong enough for this.

But what he realizes as he takes her into the dark, hand curled firmly around the back of her neck, is that it's not just about whether she's strong enough. It's a lot more than that. There are things she wants; she's come to that conclusion on her own, done it without help from him - or if he's done any helping it's been minimal. _She's_ strong enough to know, strong enough to push away whatever fear she's feeling and let herself _want_ this, let herself _have_ it, so the real question is whether he's strong enough to give it to her.

He wants to be. He settled that much with himself a while ago.

So he takes her into the dark. No one ever comes to this part of the compound; it's a tiny piece of wasteland beneath a copse of trees, shadowed enough that it can't be seen from the wall - at least not easily - and the likelihood of anyone stumbling on them is next to nil. And stumbling is a thing - when he pushes her it's hard enough to make her stumble, and she half turns, looks back at him with something in her eyes that's both apprehension and anticipation - yeah, she has some idea of what's coming next - and he's feeling the exact same thing when he grips her arm and twists it up behind her back, steers her into the shadows, and tries to fight back the wave of anxiety that threatens to overwhelm him when she lets out a pained little gasp.

Not long ago they did talk about it. Haltingly, and he knew there was a lot they didn't say - not because they don't trust each other or don't want to work through it together but simply because they don't have the vocabulary - but one thing he did get straight is that if she tells him to stop that's it. If she tells him to stop he stops. He can't hurt her, not _really_ \- _he_ was saying that, insisting that she understand, not trying to hide his fear. He can't hurt her, he can't bear to do that. So she has to tell him. She has to promise she will.

So he has to just trust her now, and he has to be strong.

He pulls her arm up tighter, and when she's under the shadow of the trees - heavy enough to hide them but not so heavy that he can't see what he's doing - he reaches into his pocket for the thick length of cord. He's good with knots, thinks he knows how to tie this one so it's next to impossible for her to get out of but which he can get loose in a hurry if he has to, something that won't get too tight even if she struggles. He walks her forward and pushes her against the broad trunk of one of the trees, her cheek against the bark, and he knows the moment she feels the rope because she shivers violently and sucks in a rough breath, and he has another moment of very intense _Holy fuck what am I even doing._

He's tying her hands behind her back is what he's doing. Tying them by the wrists and going up to her forearms, tying them in such a way that her shoulders are pulled back and her chest is arched forward. She was self-conscious about her breasts initially, about how small they are, but he made it _extremely_ clear to her that he loves them as much as he loves every single other part of her, and now he grasps one, hard, squeezing, and turns her roughly around to face him.

Her eyes are shining as she stares up at him, and she's beautiful in a way he doesn't think she ever has been. For just a moment he aches, _aches_ with how much he loves her, his girl, and he thinks he can give this to her and not panic and not fall apart.

He can trust her. He's strong enough to do that.

He reaches down to his belt for his knife and her eyes widen. He sees that, knows it's not entirely fear but maybe something like it, something akin to her mind pretending to itself, and if it wasn't so fucking in love with her maybe he would wonder why she would react like that to it, to _this,_ why she might want to feel even the pretense of it, but looking at her now, appearing deceptively small and helpless in the dimness, he feels a stab of heat that shudders all through him and pulses into his cock like lightning behind a curtain of stormclouds.

So what the fuck does it say about him that _he_ would like it?

He shoves all those questions away as he starts to cut off her shirt.

He thought about that much. He brought a shirt for her to change into. But right now he lets himself think about how it would be if he hadn't, if he could make her walk half naked back to the house, whether she would do it, whether she would _like_ that, whether he would, and he thinks maybe both of them would, and that's a whole new kind of panic, because that is a whole new kind of _fucked up_. Instead he focuses on the knife, on slicing through her shirt, listening to it tear, her sharp gasp and the way she twitches, the way she tries to _not_ twitch because he has a fucking knife centimeters from her skin.

And Christ, he could do more there as well. With that knife. With that skin. He almost makes a rough, needy, terrified sound.

He jerks her shirt the rest of the way off, drops it, cuts easily through her bra and it follows, and then she's standing there bare-breasted, and a breeze pulls at the branches and sends a scatter of dappled moonlight across her body, and he sees her skin smooth and milky-perfect and her head tilted back, leaning against the tree, a look on her face like he's never seen before.

Like she's half gone. Somewhere. It's still her, she's still with him, but part of her isn't, no.

He yanks her jeans open, drags them down her thighs. He told her no shoes and she's barefoot in the grass, and when he's ready for her to step out something rises up inside him and he watches himself, as if in a dream, pull back his hand and slap her thigh.

She jumps, lets out a little squeak, and oh _shit,_ this is something else he's going to do. He feels like everything in his head is spinning into chaos now, but it's tightly focused chaos, chaos-as-plan, a plan which is forming itself with every move he makes.

She's naked and bound. Staring down at him. Another scatter of moonlight and his breath catches in his chest, aches again.

So fucking _beautiful_.

Later he's going to hold her, pet her, run his hands all over her and try to express - with how he touches her if not with what he says - that he loves her more than he could ever find a way to tell her, that she never stops amazing him, she does it every day, that she's a fucking miracle and she's everything in which he believes in the context of a world that has gone and continues to go pretty much to shit.

But now.

He slaps her again, she squeaks again and lifts her leg slightly, and when he touches the place where his hand impacted he feels - with slow fascination - how warm her skin is.

He wishes he could see it better. See what kind of mark he left.

He picks up one of the scraps of her shirt, tears it into a strip, straightens up and cups her face. When he tilts her head up to his he's almost gentle, and he kisses her and that really _is_ gentle, soft, and she moans against him.

 _Beth,_ he mouths against her jaw. _God, Beth._

And he slips the strip of cloth between her teeth and ties it into a gag.

And yeah, okay. Okay. He pretty much loves this. Okay. He's still freaking out but only sort of, and if this is fucked up it might still be all right because he thinks he could deal with being fucked up if it's with her.

She's breathing hard now, almost in little pants, and he perceives that there actually might be an issue here. Potentially a major one. So when he grips her shoulders and turns her around to face the tree he leans in, murmurs in her ear.

"You're in trouble, you wanna stop, you shake your head. Hard. Alright? You do it, you tell me."

She hesitates, and for a second he's worried. Then she nods, slow. Firm. And then there's no more worry, no more anxiety - for now. For now, and he thinks that might be enough.

Hand on the back of her neck again - she feels so delicate under his hands, no matter how strong he knows she is, no matter how clearly her muscle stands out under her skin. Right now - as she often does when they're doing things like this, though God, this really is another level - she feels almost fragile. He holds her, pushes her against the trunk, curves his other hand against the smooth, warm skin of her ass.

This is a part of her for which he's recently gained a new appreciation. Fucking her from behind, he has a whole new kind of expanded access to it, cupping his palms against it, digging in with his fingertips. He's gotten pretty sure she likes that, and while he's never had anything even _approaching_ a problem with her essential shortage of curves, this is one place where she curves delightfully, and that _is_ something he loves. How it feels. How she's full and supple under his hands.

He digs in with his fingers now, his blunt nails, and she goes rigid and gasps softly.

_So let's give this a try._

He liked slapping her thigh. Maybe he shouldn't have but he did. So he's not second-guessing himself when he pulls back his hand and slaps her ass.

Another little squeak, louder, and he pauses, running his hand over the place he hit her. Feeling the heat, feeling a shiver run through her. Waiting for her to shake her head, let him know he's finally gone too far, and he already knows she won't be angry, won't blame him for just trying something, but he'll feel like shit anyway.

But she doesn't shake her head.

She rolls her hips, presses back against his hand.

So he slaps her again.

Without meaning to he finds himself quickly falling into a rhythm. It really doesn't even take any thought on his part. He slaps her again, again, and her high-pitched noises degenerate into a long series of whimpers, and when he switches cheeks he leans in close and hisses in her ear, "Shut the fuck _up._ "

But he's smiling, nearly laughing, and when his lips graze the corner of her jaw he knows she can feel it. Because suddenly the whimpers she's making also sound, more than anything, like loose little giggles.

So he keeps going. Harder, hard enough that her skin is burning by the time he stops again, and it's only then that he realizes with a faint stab of surprise just how hard he is, cock pressing against his fly and aching to be free. And all at once he knows what he's going to do, knows how he's going to do it, and has to bite back a groan.

But not yet. Not quite yet. He sucks two fingers into his mouth, wets them, but when he pushes them into her it turns out he didn't need to; she's so wet she's practically dripping into the grass, and his brain sort of dissolves into incoherence. She tightens around him as he pushes deep, pulls back, pushes in again, fucking her slowly as she rocks back to meet his rhythm, and her whimpers have become strained, helpless moans. And he can tell by how she sounds that this alone is getting her close, that if he slid his fingers forward to her clit it might only take seconds, less even, but he pulls free and slaps her three more times, _hard,_ and before she can catch her breath his fingers are in her again.

So it goes on like that for a little while. And he doesn't let her come.

And she doesn't shake her head.

It's strange, how his own body is working within it. He's hard, so fucking _hard,_ and now and then when the noises she's making through the gag almost become sobs, when she sounds almost frantic, when he's sure if she could talk she would be _pleading_ with him to give her release, he thinks he might beat her to it, come without even being touched, come just from what he's doing to her and what she's doing back. Then at other times he forgets it, forgets himself, and all he can focus on is her, the overheated skin under his hands, her cunt and how wet it is, how _incredibly_ wet she is and how her juices are literally running down his knuckles to his wrist, how he's making her feel. How _good_ he's almost certain he's making her feel.

And what he feels about that is just... happy, basically. Right here, right now, with her gagged and her wrists tied against the small of her back and her ass hot and flushed from where he's been slapping her... he's _happy_.

_Oh my God, my girl. My sweet girl._

But then finally he can't take it any longer and he also doesn't think he can be this kind of mean anymore. Not to her. Not when she's been so good for him - and thinking like that, almost in those words, he has no _idea_ how to understand what that does to him. Again the knife becomes a focal point, because again he uses it to cut her free, the ropes and the gag, and he spins her around, pulls her close and combs a hand through her hair. She's breathing in quick, shallow little gasps, every one almost tipping into a groan, and she gropes for his hips and it's all he can do to keep from tearing open his pants, lifting her against the tree, and burying his cock as deep in her as it'll go.

Instead he presses open-mouthed kisses to her jaw, her throat, her lips. "Love you," he whispers. "Beth, love you so fuckin' much."

And again she almost sounds like she's laughing. Maybe she is.

"On your knees," he says, still in a whisper. "Make yourself come for me."

She drops. He doesn't have to say it again. He didn't think he was going to.

More moonlight, washing over her upturned face as she sits back on her heels, her legs spread, her fingers working between them. He's asked her to do this for him before, let him watch - initially it was because he wanted to know what she liked, wanted to know just how to touch her to make her feel best. Then it was because he just loved watching her do it, loved watching her gradually forget him and disappear into herself, and now she's doing it in record time, her head thrown back and the tendons standing out in her throat, her mouth open until she has to bite her lip to stop her moans. He's doing the same, biting down hard as he gets his fly open and takes out his cock and strokes himself, trembles at the touch of his own hand and wonders if this was a bad idea, if he'll be able to hold on at all.

But he also doesn't think he'll have to. Not for all that long.

It seems like no time at all before she stiffens, her hips press forward and her body arches and bends like a bow, and she has to brace herself with one hand behind her to keep from falling backward as she comes, maybe comes harder than he's ever seen. Her lip escapes her teeth and she cries out, a broken sound, and just for an instant he worries about someone finding them, what the consequences would be - mostly he's afraid about what they might be for her, what kind of embarrassment she might feel, and then he's so fucking grateful she isn't bound and gagged anymore, because this looks positively _innocent_ compared to that.

Then all of that slides away when he reaches down to her, cups the back of her head, pulls her in and pushes his cock into her mouth.

She lets out a hard little _Mmm_ of surprise but he doesn't give her a second, doesn't give her any time at all; he's fucking her mouth in rough, shallow thrusts, his head falling back and his eyes squeezed shut, though holy _shit_ he'd love to be able to watch this. Watch her, her lips stretched around him, shining, wet. But it feels too good, he can barely even keep his feet, and it can't be more than half a minute before he comes with a sharp whine, comes down her throat, his teeth clenched and his fingers tangled tight in her hair.

For a moment after that he doesn't move. Neither does she. One more spill of moonlight, and through the branches above them he sees stars, so bright, broken glass scattered across darkness. And when his hands move again, stroking through her hair, when he slips free of her, he's gentle.

She's gasping. Shaking. But she doesn't try to get away from him, and after another few seconds he drops down in front of her and looks at her, looks close, smooths her hair back from her face. Studying her, searching for any sign that she's not okay. That he's fucked this whole thing up. Which suddenly he's half certain he has.

She gives him a loose, wobbly smile and sags against his chest.

_All right._

He sits down in the grass with her - probably looks like an idiot, his softening cock still hanging out of his pants - and she doesn't care so he doesn't either. He pulls her into his lap and holds her, hand combing through her hair, stroking over her back, rubbing her wrists. She's boneless against him, breathing deep and slow, and then he understands that he went so far in the opposite direction from _fucking the whole thing up_ that the light from _fucking the whole thing up_ won't reach him for centuries.

And if someone finds them right now he thinks he'll probably just tell them to fuck the fuck off and mind their own fucking business, can't they see he's busy?

Can't they see he's busy with the most wonderful girl in the history of the entire goddamn universe? Can't they see that?

 _Honestly_.

This is not fucked up, he thinks, smiling against the crown of her head. This is not fucked up because nothing which feels this _right_ can be fucked up, and it doesn't really matter how they got here, or what happened somewhere somewhen to make this not terrible for either of them - if that's even how people get to this point, and he's actually not sure that's true. It doesn't matter, none of that matters, because all that matters is that they're both here, they're _together_ , they _made it,_ and it doesn't matter where they're getting their happiness from as long as they're getting it with each other.

If she's strong - which he knew - it seems like maybe he is too. And that's a good thing.

Moonlight across her body, so lovely, and he knows they'll have to go back, go inside, leave this behind for now.

But just for the moment he can't think of anywhere in this whole increasingly fucked up world he'd rather be.


End file.
